“Me neither.” Jeremy had to find a miracle. Suddenly the hard hat felt too tight. Breathe!
“You look a little green. Feeling sick?” Nate took a step back.
“It’s the heat. Is it always this hot in December?”
“Can I get you some water?”
“No. I’m fine. I’ll get out of your way now.” Jen unfastened the hard hat.
Nate’s ears turned red. “Um, I wonder if you would mind taking a picture with me? I want to show Shirley I met you.”
What a lovely man. “Of course. Do you have a camera?”
Nate took a device with a small keyboard out of his pocket. “Right here. If you step outside for a minute, I’ll get one of the boys to shoot it.”
“That’s a camera?”
“It’s the new Blackberry Pearl. Best mobile phone on the market.”
A construction worker she hadn’t been introduced to, took the picture. He was too young to have any idea who she was, but he knew his mobile phones. He and Nate almost forgot why they were out there as they indulged in a rapid-fire, incomprehensible exchange on the beauties of the Blackberry.
All this fuss over a phone named after a fruit? What next? “Nate, I need to . . .”
Nate handed the phone to the other man. “Take a couple,” he ordered. “I want to show Shirley what I do when I’m at work.” He held out an arm to Jen. “May I?”
Jen smiled. He put his arm around her and beamed at the camera. She felt the weight of his arm. Smelled the slight odor of male sweat and some woodsy deodorant. Of course, she was alive.
Chapter 18
Jen walked back into the lab. The cool air flowed over her like a blessing. “Anything?”
“Mmm. Mmm.” Two heads, bent over a diagram she couldn’t begin to comprehend, didn’t look up.
“Well, Rah, Rah, Rah. Go, team. Carry on.” She didn’t sound half as perky as she’d hoped. Age was obviously diminishing her acting skill.
The computer monitor that had shown them the video of 9/11 now sported a picture of a phone booth. Scratch that. A Tardis. Dr. Who’s Time machine/phone booth. Jen’s heart lifted infinitesimally. If Dr. Who could do it? She reached over the back of the chair to hug Jeremy.
Startled, his head jerked up.
She stepped back, avoiding a whack on the chin. “After all, Jeremy, you’ve done the worst part. You’ve got the time machine even if it isn’t as spiffy as Dr. Who’s.”
Lance remained intent on his task. “Dr. Who is fiction. It would never work in real life. The design’s off. Jeremy, look here.” He pointed to a series of indecipherable scribbles. And they were off again, losing themselves in their own world.
She couldn’t sit here watching them work. She’d go mad. She tapped Jeremy on the shoulder. “You’re not going to finish tonight, are you?” No answer.
“Or before dinner?”
No answer.
She’d found her role. “I guess I’m the supply sergeant.” She raised her voice. “Jeremy, give me your keys.”
Jeremy reached into his pocket and tossed her a large key ring.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Try not to miss me too much.”
Jen had no problem maneuvering the Lexus out of the large lot. Her co-star on The Way Out had taught her how to drive American-style on the right-hand side of the road. But where to go?
The workers were all back inside except for the man in the crane, and she didn’t plan to tangle with one of those. Jen lifted her hair off her neck with one hand, enjoying the cool air humming through the car.
Her gaze shifted to the mountains, covered in a smoky haze. Not that way, she decided. I’ll turn right out of the lot. If I don’t see anything in a few blocks, I’ll turn right again. Then left. Everywhere she’d been in Los Angeles had a freeway or a fast food stand within a few blocks.
Jeremy had set the music to an oldie’s station. Good choice. She hummed along to Let It Be and Lovers in Love. The sound of I Want to Wish You a Merry Christmas sent her fumbling for the station changer.
Jen pulled in at a strip mall, which had a Mexican food place and an Indian restaurant. Los Angeles had wonderful Mexican food. She ordered half the takeaway menu and one of her favorite American inventions, an iced tea. The tea soothed her throat, still scratchy from tears.
She glanced around the restaurant, trying to distract herself from the video looping in her brain. The flamboyant Christmas decorations provided an incongruous note in her mind. So irrelevant. Mothers with bouncing children, an old couple holding hands. Businessmen on mobile phones. No one seemed sad. No one else was mourning the deaths of thousands of people they’d never met. For them, 9/11 was five years in the past.
She sipped the tea, trying to wash away the bright, metallic taste of grief and terror. They were going to be in Los Angeles for a while. She was sure of it. Scientific discoveries take longer to produce than a play, Jeremy used to say, when she’d accused him of hiding from real life in his lab. Her mind shied away from the thought they might be stuck here forever, their present lives looping over and over like a piece of celluloid.
“Stop thinking problems, Jen. Think solutions.” First, housing. They couldn’t stay at The Bel Air indefinitely. Too pricey.
Her waiter came to refill her tea glass. “A few minutes only, Senora.”
She smiled at him. “That’s all right. I’m not in a hurry. Do you know any place near here renting apartments?” On tour, she’d always found her best leads on housing from waiters.
“What are you looking for?”
“A two bedroom. Furnished, if possible.”
“The Oakwood rents furnished. It’s on Hollywood Way, near Warner Brothers.”
“Sounds promising. Now, if you could find me a phone number for it, and a map?”
The waiter reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. Did everyone in California have a mobile phone? “Please. Use mine.” He tapped out something and handed her the phone.
“Thank you.”
The Oakwood had a vacancy. Jen told them she’d come by to look at the apartment in an hour. She gathered up her takeaway and an extra menu, tipped her waiter twenty dollars, which left her penniless, and drove back to the warehouse.
“Break time.”
Jeremy and Lance looked up from the diagram they’d been studying. Their eyes were glazed.
She waved the bags under their noses. “I brought food.”
Jeremy returned to studying the diagram.
Jen plunked the food bag on top of it. “Stop. Now. You’ll think better after you’ve eaten.”
Lance stood up, winced, put his hands on the small of his back. “You’re a life saver.”
“No, I’m the supply sergeant. In my own small way, I work miracles. I’ve also found us a cheaper place to stay.”
“For which my wallet thanks you,” Jeremy mumbled through a bite of burrito. “This is fantastic, by the way.”
“Also,” Jen continued, “it seems Lance and I may be the only two humans in Los Angeles without mobile phones. Do you have any hanging about?”
Lance clapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m an idiot. Jeremy bought us phones at the mall yesterday. They’re already connected to his service. I forgot to take them out of the bag.”
“I’ll pick them up when I check us out of the hotel.” Jen tapped the diagram they’d been studying. “Any luck?”
Jeremy quirked an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?”
“The particles of the space/time continuum continue to elude us,” Lance said with a straight face. “But we have hopes of stringing them together.”
Jeremy choked on a mouthful of burrito. Lance pounded him on the back.
Jen sighed. “You made a physics joke, didn’t you? I’
d applaud, but I didn’t understand it.”
“No reason you should,” Jeremy said. “It was a pun on string. The String theory of particle physics. I’m sorry I laughed. It just encourages him.”
At least they’d both stopped looking like the weight of the world was crushing them. Odds on, it was the food cheering them, not the joke. “I’ll carry on with supplying, then. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
Next stop, The Oakwood apartments. Back in the car, she studied the simple map the waiter had drawn for her. God bless all waiters everywhere. They definitely knew where to look.
The Oakwood apartment complex was a series of beige buildings bordered by a green lawn. The amenities included a community swimming pool and spa. Of course. The first time she’d flown into Los Angeles it seemed as if every home the plane flew over had a pool attached.
The apartment the manager showed her looked like what it was meant to be, a temporary home for executives. In this movie studio-bordered area, most of them were probably in the industry. The furnishings were good. Upscale, but uninspired. Linens were included. Both bedrooms had queen size beds with white-on-white blankets and comforters. White digital clock- radios on the bed stands. The white-tiled bathroom featured white, fluffy towels.
The kitchen—more white—had a full set of dishes and cookware, which she had no intention of using. The living room was furnished with a desk and chair, a white sofa, two matching overstuffed chairs, glassed topped coffee and end tables, a television, another white digital clock radio, a cordless phone—white of course—and a framed oil painting of fruit.
She turned to the manager. “I’ll take it for a month.” With luck, they wouldn’t be here that long.
Chapter 19
Jen drove back to the Bel Aire Hotel to retrieve their luggage.
She unpacked their few belongings, placing Lance’s new laptop and the bag containing the cell phones on the desk in the living room.
She removed the fruit painting to the front closet. She’d find something else. Years of touring had taught her to take simple accessories—a poster, a piece of art glass, a whimsical cushion or two—and turn a hotel room into a place she could feel at home.
The flat came with a magazine called Valley Today, which had a number of helpful suggestions on where to shop. She found a parking spot on Magnolia Boulevard near Hollywood Way, the area Valley Today lauded as a treasure trove of antique stores and one-of-a-kind businesses. The first shop she prowled, The Rose and Elephant, had an antique, crazy quilt in jeweled colors. The perfect thing to break up the apartment’s sterile white.
“How much for the quilt?”
The man behind the counter glanced up from the book he was reading, using his finger as a placeholder. When he saw what she was holding, he smiled like a well-fed cat. “Seventy-five dollars.”
Jen tried to work it out in pounds and gave up. She really wanted it. “I’ll take it.” She handed the man Jeremy’s credit card.
“Sorry, dear. We don’t take credit cards. Cash or check, only.”
She couldn’t go back and ask Jeremy for money. He was too deep in the problem. “Could you hold it for me? I’m new. I mean, I just got into town. I have to make arrangements to get some cash.”
He peered at her over gold, half-rimmed glasses. “You look like a nice lady. Twenty-four hours and then it goes back on display.”
“Thank you. I’ll be back.” Tomorrow she’d tackle Jeremy about money. Surely he had an account in some local bank? Such an uncomfortable feeling, not having access to her own funds. She hated being dependent.
Jen strolled down the street past thrift shops and bookstores. A white, wicker rocking chair and matching table, sitting in front of a window box filled with red poinsettias, caught her eye. The shop’s show window displayed several vintage dresses including a . . . Mary Quant? No. It couldn’t be. Jen walked inside.
The store was a beautiful jumble of periods and styles. The music might have been Christmas, but she didn’t recognize it. Guitars and flutes. Maybe a harp. Pine and cinnamon scents twined with lavender in an oddly pleasant mingle. A Christmas tree strewn with a variety of ornaments ranging from Disney to spun glass fantasies, stood next to a Gibson Girl coifed mannequin wearing a pin-tucked, violet-printed organza gown, circa 1893. Several shoppers browsed the circular racks. Three women, arms full of dresses, stood in front of the glass-topped counter. The harried young man behind it wore a vintage Star Wars T-shirt. Wonder if they have any more of those?
A woman’s voice rose. “I need to know what year this dress is. My director will kill me if I come back with the wrong year.”
The young man shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s not a designer I know. If you are looking for 1966, there’s a Mary Quant in the window.”
Ha! Knew it.
“I. Can’t. Use. Blue! The dress has to be red.” The woman thrust the blood-red dress under his nose.
He drew back as if she were a snake.
The woman did have a certain vampire quality. She’d bet if the man had a cross, he would have used it.
“You should know your merchandise. This is ludicrous. Where’s the owner?”
Jen stepped forward. “Maybe I can help? I’m pretty good at period pieces.” She took the dress from the woman and searched for the label. None. But the stitching and the zigged hemline? “That’s a Biba dress. Biba was hugely popular in London from about 1964 to 1974.”
The woman eyed her as if she were a new species of bug.
“You can always tell Biba by the stitching and the hidden pocket,” Jen demonstrated. “In 1969, a dress like this would have cost thirty-three pounds. In today’s upscale vintage market, it could cost over a thousand pounds.”
The woman snatched the dress from Jen and turned to the young man. “The tag says fifty dollars. I’ll give you twenty.”
The boy shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to change the prices.”
The woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. She threw the dress on the counter and turned away.
Jen smiled at the boy. “I’ll take it.”
Vampire lady snatched it back with a snarl. “No, you won’t.” She pulled out her wallet and slammed three twenties on the counter.
The boy handed her a ten, and she marched out of the store cradling the dress in her arms.
A blonde forty-something woman with a butterfly clip perched on a wild mop of red curls, giggled. “Good for you. Gertie, the grabber, is with Warner Brothers costume department. She acts as if the money she shells out for costumes comes from her personal retirement fund.” The woman handed Jen a white, silk negligee set. “I don’t suppose you could tell me anything about this? I love it, but it’s for my mom and I want to get her something from the fifties. That’s when they got married.”
Jen fondled the satin folds. “The style is classic, but I’d say 1954. See the small crest worked into the shoulder? C. White and company put out this model when Queen Elizabeth got married. My mother thought it was a terrible breach of taste to copy the Queen’s wedding dress as a nightgown. It didn’t stop her from buying it, though.”
“How about this one?” The woman showed her a blush pink gown, cut on bias lines.
Jen shook her head. “Before my time, I’m afraid. I can tell it’s from the 1930’s by the cut.”
The young man mouthed a grateful thank you.
Jen smiled. She let him deal with the line of customers, and went over to the Mary Quant in the window. It looked like her size. Wonder if he would hold it? The line continued, so she prowled the furnishings. She added an embroidered Spanish shawl, perfect to add a note of color to the apartment’s mundane sofa, and a whimsical Falstaff Mug to her loot, and took them to the counter. “This is a fantastic store. You’re lucky to work here.”
“Righ
t. It’s my dream job,” he said straight-faced. “I’m Michael Walshe, by the way.”
Jen held out her hand. “I’m Jennifer . . .” What was the surname on the false driver’s license Jeremy had purchased? “You can call me Jen.”
Michael took her hand. “My mom owns this place.” He had a sweet smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like a temporary job?”
A job. Something to take her mind off the nightmare replaying in her head. But . . . “I’m not authorized to work in this country,” she warned. “It would have to be under the table.”
“I’ll pay you cash,” he offered. “I’ll check with my mom, but I know she’ll be good with it. My brother broke his leg and she’s gone to Sacramento to lend him a hand. And it’s Christmas and Lisa’s out with the flu. So, would you?”
Jen grinned at him. “How much? Do I get a Star Wars T-Shirt too?”
Michael’s face lit up. “Seriously? You’ll do it? I’m all right on the furniture and the books. But the clothes? I can tell a Halston from a Quant. But that’s about it. And I’m supposed to be studying for finals.” The sleigh bells on the door jingled raucously. “Oh, boy.”
Another rush of customers streamed in. Jen stashed her purse and loot behind the counter and pitched in. By closing time she’d sold several dresses, a Staffordshire china set, and a slew of ornaments.
Michael locked the door, and flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. “Unbelievable. It’s never this busy.” His shoulders slumped. “And I’ve still got to clean up.”
She felt as limp as he looked. “Show me where your stock room is. I’ll make it pretty. You take care of the money.”
Working together, they managed to finish up in an hour. Michael put a wad of cash into an envelope. “Here. Your wages. You will be back tomorrow, won’t you?”
Maybe This Time (A Second Chance Romance) Page 9